


Those Who hate Los Angeles have never been in love

by spacegirl11



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-21 17:08:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30025071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegirl11/pseuds/spacegirl11
Summary: “You can’t keep this shit from him; it’s also his...” Duff closed his mouth, stopping the flow of words before Axl exploded at the mere mention of telling Izzy the news. He pushed a strand of blond hair aside.“Yeah, I know, but do you see him here? He left the band, McKagan, he left me!” shouted Axl, losing his composure, red hair falling limp on his face.He left us, corrected his mind, tears falling through those perfect and smooth cheeks. He cried enough for a lifetime he didn’t need this right now; Duff could see the heartbreak in those greenish-blue eyes.
Relationships: Axl Rose/Izzy Stradlin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	1. Oh poor Atlas.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first-ever fanfic I wrote, but don't worry, I edited this to the best of my abilities, If you read the tags it has mpreg, I know it's not everyone's cup of tea, but I actually liked this one a lot, and I wanted to share it. It's a little embarrassing haha, but Ax has both sets of organs to make that happen, the title comes from Keaton's Henson song "No witnesses", totally unrelated, but I love Keaton, Well, I hope you enjoy this, thanks for reading, and I'll be seeing y'all often 💜

September 1991.

Once again, he had a date with the toilet bowl. His hands clutched the porcelain tighter while he emptied the contents of his stomach; the tears welled up in his eyes as he heaved, feeling the bile rise in his throat, red hair sticking to his sweaty forehead.

Axl had been sick for the past few weeks, bouts of nausea at the slightest smell of certain foods and even the smoke from the cigarettes, long gone were his precious vice. But he was too afraid to confront the problem and visit the doctor instead, he blamed it on the hectic schedule, stress, and pray to whatever deity under the sun that the sickness would pass.

It didn’t. There were bruises on his knees from every time he collapsed on the floor, and he was fucking exhausted. He felt a calming hand on his back, Duff; he didn’t hear the door open; the bassist rubbed circles on the redhead's back. Holding a water bottle, Axl rested his forehead in the cold toilet seat and flush it with his eyes closed. The blond pushed the bottle in his hands and doesn't leave until it was half empty.

“You should go to the doctor, man this shit isn’t normal” Duff crossed his arms, concern written on those big brown eyes.

“Yeah man, I’ll take care of it,” Axl muttered, running a hand through his hair, red strands falling in his eyes.

“You said that last time, Ax it’s been weeks, what if you’re...” Duff didn’t finish the sentence but Axl didn’t need to hear it, he knew what the blond meant.

_Dying_

He wasn’t ready to die; it wasn’t something that terrified him. Everyone dies at their own speed, but Axl felt that there were things still left to do; hell, he wasn’t even 30. Too damn young, he tried to smile and reassure Duff that he was alright, but the blond acted like a concerned mother; someone in this band had to be.

“Let’s go back to rehearsal, then I’ll deal with whatever’s going on with me,” the bassist looked satisfied with his answer, even though there was hesitation in his eyes, Axl’s grateful that he didn’t press him with his worry, God knows he couldn’t handle it.

Both men exited the bathroom and went back to the studio. Slash was strumming his guitar, a cigarette dangling from those full lips. When Axl entered the room, he scrunched his nose and tried to ignore the rolling in his stomach and the new wave of nausea that invaded him. The curly-haired guitarist put the offending cigarette out in the ashtray, rolling his eyes behind the mass of curls covering half of his face.

“Not only is the Ayatollah late, now I can’t have a smoke without the princess getting sick,” the brunet scoffed, annoyed, and fixed the strap of his guitar. Matt chuckled from his place behind the drum kit.

“Shut it, asshole, or next time I’ll barf on your face,” Axl grabbed the mic stand and tried to stay focused, but his mind drifted to a particularly dark-haired rhythm guitarist with stormy eyes and a calm demeanor. He hadn’t seen him since the concert in August at Wembley Stadium.

After his newfound sobriety, Izzy wanted out, and no matter how much Axl cried, begged, and tried to bribe him with money, there was no way to keep his friend in, and they had yet to inform about his departure from the band.

He felt betrayed. After all those years, and the shit they went through. The secret kisses in Izzy’s dark childhood room after his stepfather beat the shit out of him, where the only witnesses were the posters on the walls. And the way their bodies fitted perfectly together in those hotel rooms of nameless cities during this stupor of drunken nights and drug-fueled sex.

Their encounter was bittersweet, Axl couldn’t sleep, and he didn’t want to attend the afterparty in Duff’s room or go to the biker bar. Instead, his feet betrayed him. The singer was walking directly to Izzy’s room, and before his brain could process the big mistake it was about to make.

Izzy opened the door in all of his flower child glory, a bandana resting on his forehead, a cigarette perched on his lips, and a flowy black shirt unbuttoned. Axl didn’t let him talk before his lips were on the brunet, kissing him like no other time before, recalling those nights spent in stranger's couches, touching each other’s bodies, and tasting their skin.

The brunet didn’t protest and let the redhead explore his mouth. Axl felt drunk and content; the rush of lust guiding every move. Their heated kiss ended with Izzy on top of him, soft moans that escaped from that beautiful pink mouth, and the distinctive sound of skin slapping against skin. Axl left in the middle of the night, quiet as a mouse without disturbing his best friend, and went back to his room.

With Izzy gone, Axl tried to forget their encounter to no avail. He knew where to find him, but he didn’t want to face him. Fortunately, the work consumed him; the responsibility of the band was on his shoulders. They had to find a worthy replacement and resolve a bunch of legal problems that arose. That served him to keep his thoughts away from his former best friend.

After rehearsal, he went back home and reluctantly called his doctor to schedule an appointment. If he was indeed dying, he better hurry before he didn't have enough time.

**. . .**

Axl didn’t understand the concept of appointments. The secretary informed him to arrive 15 minutes earlier, 20 minutes passed since his arrival, and he was still in the waiting room. The nurse at the front desk hummed to whatever song on the radio, and the redhead glowered at her, fidgeting with his thumbs, before admitting defeat and grabbing one of the old magazines from the coffee table. He flipped through the pages, bored and irritated when the nurse called his name.

“Mr. Bailey? Doctor Taylor is ready to see you, follow me,” she chimed with a cheery voice, and Axl tried to fake a smile and nodded his head, walking behind her to the office.

He didn't hate doctors, but sometimes the impersonal and sterile ambiance of the office unnerved him and made his skin crawl. His tennis squeaked with the polished tiles on the floor. Dr. Taylor smiled at him, urging him to take a seat in front of his desk.

“What brings you here today, Mr. Rose? It’s a rare occurrence to see you,” He informed, folding his arms and resting them on the desk, his bushy mustache covering his top lip.

“I have some symptoms for the last couple of weeks, maybe it’s the flu or something like that, nausea, heartburn, fatigue, and some food aversions,” Axl watched the eyebrows of the older man disappear behind his brown fringe and scribbled down on the open notepad.

“Hmm, I assume that you’ve been under a lot of stress, but I have to run some tests,” Dr. Taylor cleared his throat and swallowed, “Now, let me ask you a question, Are you taking your birth control? Maybe it’s time to try a different brand.”

_Shit,_ thought Axl, bringing a hand to his mouth, it was no secret to his bandmates and close friends he was a Carrier, someone born with a recessive gene that made him have both sets of organs. Sometimes he tried so hard to forget his predicament by fucking some girl or a stripper. To disregard the immense disappointment he was to his entire family. Memories of that night with Izzy resurfaced, and suddenly the room felt smaller, and his clothes were too tight on his thin frame.

_“I-I’m on birth control.” stammered the singer, but Izzy remained silent and continued to nip at his earlobe, trusting in the words of the redhead and the brunet didn’t exactly encourage the use of protection just to be extra safe._

“I don’t like where this is going,” said Axl and played with the hem of his oversized shirt “Are you suggesting...?”

Axl couldn’t say it aloud. He thought that maybe it was some sort of deadly disease, maybe even cancer anything but _that_.

“I’ll need a urine and blood sample, only then we can confirm it, but the signs are there,” Taylor played with the pen between his fingers.

With that said, the doctor exited the office, leaving Axl alone with his thoughts. He didn’t want to say the word, let alone think about it, saying it out loud would make the whole situation more real, and right now he couldn’t deal with it; a nurse came and gave him a small plastic cup, then she guided him to the bathroom.

Some agonizing hours later and a band-aid in his arm, they called him back to the office; his heart was thumping and could hear it in his ears, threatened to shoot out of his chest. He felt his breakfast come up through his throat, and puked in the trashcan outside the office; before going inside, his hands were clammy and tried to wipe them in his jeans. The stare from the older man was too intense to bear as he took a sit in the chair, feeling overexposed.

“Have you been sexually active in the past few weeks?” Dr. Taylor tapped his pen on the desk. Axl nodded; he has been having sex, but he was doing the fucking. Four weeks ago, he had the encounter with Izzy.

“Do you want me to read the results, or should we leave it like that?” Taylor continued and clutched the papers in his hands, “I think you know what’s happening.”

The redhead shook his head and swallowed audibly, closing his eyes, the tears threatened to spill from green eyes; he blamed the hormones indirectly.

“Axl...you need to make a decision, so I can refer you to a gynecologist or terminate it” The redhead cringed at the words, he couldn’t end it, not after what happened with Erin.

“Ok, I’ll call you as soon as I decide,” Axl stuttered, sniffing and accepting the results from the doctor. Like a poor joke, the older man gave him a couple of condoms and sent him home.

In the privacy of his car, Axl gripped the steering wheel tightly until his knuckles turned white; he let the tears run along his cheeks. The reality of his situation hit him like a bucket of ice-cold water, the weight of it accumulating in his back like Atlas.

He’s pregnant.

Four weeks to be exact.

And there was no doubt that it was Izzy’s, his former best friend, who he didn’t talk to anymore, _fuck_.


	2. It would be so fine to see your face at my door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Does ‘Uncle Duffy’ sounds good?” asked the blond with a soft smile, changing the subject, trying to lighten up the mood. Axl threw a towel at him and chuckled.

Nobody knew anything about Axl in two days, they had to cancel another rehearsal, and the singer ignored their calls. Everyone was familiar with the redhead’s sudden mood swings and outbursts, and the flags in Duff’s mind suggested this time it was different. His anxiety wasn’t helping, creating all kinds of fatal scenarios for the sudden disappearance of the older man.

He could’ve overdosed on valium again, choke on his own vomit, or worse, the blond shook his head and tried to keep calm, that’s why he found himself in front of Axl’s house, his knuckles grazed the wooden door and waited for any response.

Duff couldn’t hear anything. Normally, the shorter man always had loud music playing in the background, it often caused problems with his neighbors, or sometimes you could hear him playing the piano in the living room.

But behind the front door, everything was oddly quiet, causing the anxiety to rise, that familiar tightness in his chest and the uneven breathing; calling the cops sounded like a good idea but, the singer opened the door, and the blond released a breath he was holding.

Axl was wearing sweatpants and an overly large hoodie; his hair was unwashed, oily strawberry blonde strands resting in his shoulders, and the bags underneath his eyes were prominent. Duff was just glad to find him alive although, he didn’t look alright; the shorter man didn’t slam the door in his face, so the bassist took that as a good sign.

He didn’t want to be alone.

“What’s going on?” asked Duff softly, not trying to scare him. The redhead stepped aside and let his friend in, climbing the stairs sluggishly to his room, the blond following him close, “Ax, talk to me.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, the older man reached to a yellow folder in his nightstand and tossed it in the bassist’s awaiting hands. The singer sat at the edge of the bed, chewing on his bottom lip nervously.

Duff read the results, there in bold letters was the diagnosis, his bandmate, his bro, his friend, the guy he shared girls, clothes and at some point drugs, was having a baby, the blonde’s eyes soften, and he put a hand on his chest, letting out a nervous laugh.

“Ax, oh my god, a-a-and what are you planning to do,” Duff took a seat beside Axl in the bed, putting a hand on his shoulders. His eyes were red, and in no time, the tears were running from his cheeks. The taller man gathers him in his arms, pulling him into a tight hug.

“I don’t know yet. I want to keep it, but look at me, Duff, and my fucked-up life. What kind of future could I give this child? I didn’t exactly have a good role model. I could turn into my deadbeat dad or my asshole of a stepdad; maybe it’s for the better if I gave them up for adoption,” Axl rested his head on the crook of Duff’s neck, sniffling, leaving a trail of snot and tears in the bassist’s shirt.

“Are you kidding me? You’re so good with kids, better than any of us, and this kid it’s going to be so lucky Axl Rose it’s gonna be their dad. How cool is that? I’m gonna be a hell of a good uncle,” Duff smiled.

Suddenly, the future didn’t look so bad anymore; he felt excited for the first time since he left the doctor’s office. Images of a little girl with red hair and stormy brown eyes invaded his mind.

How could he already be so attached to a little clump of cells? He didn’t know, but this was his chance of having his own family; with or without Izzy, he would do it. He wouldn’t feel alone anymore. It was another reason to keep living.

Duff guides him to the bathroom, leaving him alone to take a shower; this moping around and feeling bad for himself needed to end. Meanwhile, the blond went to buy groceries.

_“You can’t live on twinkies and cereal, man a proper meal is in order” beamed Duff, grabbing his car keys, “And no buts."_

Once he got out of the shower, Duff was preparing chicken noodle soup from scratch in the kitchen. He didn’t expect this kind of support from his bandmate, probably didn’t deserve it; in the last months, Axl wasn’t exactly friendly with any of them, lashing out at everyone and picking fights with them since Izzy left the band. An apology was in order.

When he arrived at the kitchen and took a whiff from the soup, a wave of nausea surged, and he bolted towards the bathroom, emptying his stomach; Duff was at his side, pulling his hair out of his face, when he was done, the taller man took a seat in the closed toilet seat while Axl took his toothbrush.

The only question still lingering in the air was the identity of the other parent, and Axl knew that Duff was curious.

“You can ask, I’m sure you know who the other father of my child is,” Axl shrugged and brushed his teeth.

“Are you sure you want to tell me?” Duff mumbled, running a hand through golden locks.

“It’s Izzy’s,” deadpanned Axl. Duff knew that they’ve been in some weird relationship before they’ve arrived at L. A; he could see it in the way their eyes lingered on each other, the jealousy when one of them spent the night with a stripper or groupie or how they would kiss when they thought no one was looking.

“You’re going to tell him?” Duff’s voice was little, almost a whisper.

“I still don’t know, maybe after the baby is born. I can raise it on my own, and I don’t need his charity or pity,” Axl braced himself, unable to meet Duff’s gaze.

“You can’t keep this shit from him; it’s also his...” Duff closed his mouth, stopping the flow of words before Axl exploded at the mere mention of telling Izzy the news. He pushed a strand of blond hair aside.

“Yeah, I know, but do you see him here? He left the band, McKagan, he left me!” shouted Axl, losing his composure, red hair falling limp on his face.

_He left us_ , corrected his mind, tears falling through those perfect and smooth cheeks. He cried enough for a lifetime he didn’t need this right now; Duff could see the heartbreak in those greenish-blue eyes.

“Does ‘Uncle Duffy’ sounds good?” asked the blond with a soft smile, changing the subject, trying to lighten up the mood. Axl threw a towel at him and chuckled.

The rest of the evening passed like a haze; the redhead could only eat saltine crackers and ginger ale. Duff left later after making sure he was alright; before he was gone, Axl told him to keep the news secret. He will tell the rest of the band when he was ready.

Alone in the big and empty house, Axl picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number, the same he memorized after so many years. His hands were shaking while he waited for someone to answer.

“Hello?” said that voice, the same one that used to whisper sweet nothings and all kinds of dirty things in his ear; the singer felt his heart pound in the confines of his chest, holding his breath. He couldn’t speak; something trapped the words in his throat “Who is this?”

Axl hung up and stormed upstairs to his room, collapsing in the bed, wrapping the comforter around himself, and closing his eyes tightly.

He could do this.

He could do this

With or without him, he would do it, and no one could change his mind.

**. . .**

October came and went; Axl was grateful for the slight chill in the weather, another excuse to keep wearing large hoodies and oversized t-shirts. The nausea subsided, and with the weeks came an assortment of new symptoms and changes. By November, he lost all muscle definition he achieved over the years. And, no, Slash, I’m not fat, you’re fat; leave me alone.

The small bump was barely noticeable through the baggy clothes, only visible if you stared long enough. But it was there; he found it difficult to believe that he was sharing his body with an entirely new being. The thought that maybe the doctors were wrong crossed his mind, but with the appearance of the bump, all lingering doubt disappeared.

He hadn’t tried to contact Izzy since that evening in that moment of weakness, Duff and the rest of the band didn’t press him to search the rhythm guitarist, and they respected his decision, it was his kid; he was carrying them for nine months.

Everything was going smooth, their producers agreed and let him take a break for the rest of his pregnancy, and two months after the delivery, Axl just wanted to retire to the safety of his house and never leave. All that calm was very suspicious.

They were at a reunion, in the house of who knows who. Slash dragged him with the pretense that it was a farewell party before he had to change diapers for the rest of his life; Axl didn’t know why he was there at all, his mood was all over the place, and everything irritated him.

The boys were already drunk, and the singer retreated to a couch where he sipped from his can of soda when the curly-haired guitarist approached him, and because he was a loud drunk, he couldn’t keep his voice down.

“Hey Ax, Is it true that you can’t have sex now that you’re pregnant?” Slurred Slash swinging his arm around his shoulders, Axl felt his jaw drop to the floor. He blinked twice. Everything was silent around him except for a couple of whispers.

Axl glared at the curly-haired man. If looks could kill, Slash would be dead in no time; he stormed out of the house, avoiding the stares from the guests and shoving his hands in the pockets of the hoodie to retrieve the car keys. Duff was following him, calling for him, but the redhead ignored him; he was too angry at everyone and the world; he went back home, sulking in the privacy of his room.

The next day Duff called him and reassured the singer that no one would say anything, that he was safe, he shouldn’t worry too much about in condition. Axl wished he could believe the blond, but the media was like a predator, always searching for his new victim, and he was the perfect target; Duff’s words calm him a little. Maybe he was acting too paranoid.

He was wrong; all hell broke loose, the media was relentless, gossip magazines, newspapers, and T. V shows talked about it, speculating about his condition. Soon enough, his phone was ringing nonstop, and Slash was avoiding him like the plague. Maybe he caught the singer in a good mood, but he wasn’t mad at the guitarist; he directed all his anger at the asshole that contacted the media.

The prospect of leaving the house was out of the table, let the media speculate and talk shit; he was not giving any statement, so he resigned to spend the rest of his pregnancy in the privacy of his home, until the evening that Duff came.

“Ax, man, I’m sorry,” said the blond with an apologetic smile and a guilty expression, “He kept calling me because you wouldn’t answer the phone.”

“What are you talking about? What did you do?” Axl ran a hand over his face, exasperated, feeling a surge of annoyance. The bassist stepped aside, and behind him, there was a man with slightly tanned skin, a black paperboy cap, sunglasses that covered his eyes, but the only thing that the singer could register in his mind was the dreads.

It took him a minute to recognize the man in front of him. Izzy stood in front of the house, hands inside the pockets of his jacket. Axl didn’t know if he was looking at him with those glasses or if he was avoiding his gaze. Duff cleared his throat audibly, catching the attention of both men.

“Can we come in? I think both of you need to talk,” remarked Duff nervously, fidgeting with the necklace he was wearing.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” demanded Axl, baring his teeth and crossing his arms defensively around himself.

“It’s good to see you too, mama,” finally said Izzy, bringing the attention back to himself. Axl ignored the way his heart beating faster at the sound of that voice and how his knees turned to jelly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, see y'all later 💜


End file.
